


Dean Winchester: Age Ten.

by thelastbarricade



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Fluff, Hurt, M/M, Panic Attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 12:42:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelastbarricade/pseuds/thelastbarricade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean was ten when he had his first panic attack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean Winchester: Age Ten.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [voiDce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voiDce/gifts).



  Dean was ten when he had his first panic attack.

  You read that exactly right:  _Dean._  
  
  Many would have expected Sam to have been the more unstable of the two youngsters, seeing as Sam was obviously more sensetive in comparison; Dean on the other hand was hardened by John's strict ways since the turn of being just four.  
  But that just wasn't how it came to be, by means of events. It was Dean--not Sam, not little Sammy who sometimes cried in hushed bottled up breath of sobs when John would stay out for a week or more.  
  It was Dean.  
  Dean Winchester who was currently in the paused processes of learning to saw off his first shotgun. Who hadn't cried since the death of his mother in front of Sam or John for pure fear of what that would mean. He had to be the big boy. The big brother. He had to protect Sammy and set an example. He had to.  
  
  Dean.  
  
  Just Dean.  
  
  Because Lord almighty knows that John Winchester, a father he may have been by genetic making, was not the father he could have been. John Winchester was not the father to Sam that Dean had been for the past six years. The father an brother and mother he had never known.  
  That was Dean Winchester, just ten.  
  Just fucking ten.  
  
  
  It came slow and sudden, if that somehow made sense.  
  It was the third night that John had been gone on one of his bigger hunts and Dean had been left in one of the more seedy hotel husks that John had the (mis)fortune of happening across for them. Sam had been down with a small fever; nothing serious, John had said. Nothing a few aspirings, soup and a shit ton of bottled water couln't fix. John didn't know jack shit about being sick, Dean decided very early on. Sam hadn't had a bad cold before, and this? This was a bad cold if a kid of six and ten had ever seen one.  
  Dean had had to change the hotel sheets on his own the first few nights John was away because Sam had simply been too weak and achy to make to to the bathroom. Dean didn't complain though. He just cursed the smell and hand washed and hung the sheets, breaking into the jointed room for sheets after he decided the service was shit.  
  
  It was on the third night that the crying began--with Sam. Crying that was fever hazed and painful for Dean because he could feel the heat emmanating from Sam and see so clearly the pain across his brothers face.  
  
  "Dean?" Sam's voice was wrought with a thickness tears had left him. He would awake from little dozes and naps crying, crying from pain or confusion or nightmares or worse.  
  
  "Hey," Dean rubbed his eyes, water bottle ready in hand. "You feelin' any better, Sammy?"  
  
  Sam sniffled, shaking his little head, a mess of toussled coppery curls. "N-No. My tummy hurts, Dean."  
  
  "I know kiddo." Dean pressed the refrigerator chilled water botle to his brothers head in soft, brushing back the slight sweat streaked waves that fell over his brothers little ears. "You thirsty? You haven't drank anything in a while."  
  
  "No." Sam's voice was muffled. "I just don't wanna' stay here, Dean. It's scary. I don't feel-"  
  
  Dean sighed, scooting closer to the curled up little form his brother had taken shape of in the mess of thin motel sheets. "I know, Sam. Dad'll be back soon, okay? We'll go get you some real good medicine, you know? That bubblegum flavored shit you like." Dean smiled in small.  
  
  Sam blinked lazily, a soft smile perking on his reddened lips. "I hate bubblegum, Dean. I like Grape. Half Grape half Cherry."  
  
  "Oh gross." Dean shook his head with a small feiged gag. "Wait...Then who likes bubblegum?" Dean asked incredlously, almost indignant.  
  
  Sam smiled wide at that, eyes closed still. "Dunno'." Sam's voice was muffled from between the pillows.  
  
  Dean flicked his brothers ear in soft, getting a small yelp from the younger boy. Dean smiled, leaving the water bottle on the nightstand.   
  
  Their father may have known about demon's and ghosts and the ghouls that ran amuck in the night, known how to take 'care' of those darned souls, but Dean? Dean had to learn and deal with the things John never could. He had to deal with a kid, while still being a kid. He had to learn to take on roles that would drive any level headed kid (without supernatural involvement in their family line) off their goddamn rocker.  
  
  Dean had done more than John Winchester ever could.  
  Dean was just ten.  
  
  
  Sam must have fallen back asleep Dean decided as seconds ticked away into silent minutes.  
  
  The motel room phone rang loud in his ear a moment later, causing the elder Winchester boy to jump a tad. He cursed his nerves and answered the number with a low voice.  
  
  "Winchester residence," Dean turned back to Sam who lay silent and still as he leaned against the counter in the kitchen where the phone lay landline in the wall. "Who may I ask is, well, askin'?"  
  
  "This the Winchester's boy? Dan 'er somethin'?"  
  
  "Dean, yeah. Close enough. Why?" Dean rolled his eyes.  
  
  "Dean." The man with a gruff voice he didn't recognize seemed to acknowledge. "Your pap, John, he asked me ta' find you boys and give ya' a little update on the hunt."  
  
  Dean's heart lept a little. "Uh, yeah? What'd he say? Is he comin-?"  
  
  "Nah, he's got held up down in that small Alabama town. Authorities are on his tail for something, nothing big. Maybe another week and he should be out. He told me to call and update you boys. He said if you run outta' anythin', Bobby's workin' a job a few towns over from ya'. You got his number, John said'ta give him a call."  
  
  Dean paused. A fucking week. A week.  
  Sam was still sick and John was going to be gone another week.   
  Fucking perfect.  
  
  "Got it. Thanks." He hung up without another word or asking for a name as he let his head fall into his hands. Dean slammed the receiver down a moment later.  
  
  
  Not many considered Dean Winchester, at this age to know much of anything besides firing a gun and keeping his brother and him safe locked up in cheap motels for a few days.   
  Easy, right?  
  John seemed to think so.  
  
  Dean felt the thought of another week of sick Sam, another week of not being able to comfort or properly care for the one responsibility he'd been carrying and making count since he was old enough to walk. Even Bobby would take days to get over to them, especially if he was working a job like their dad.  
  
  Dean's head pounded, his thoughts were hot and heavy and completely lost. He couldn't think of another three days of this much less a week. They were low on food, out of soup for Sam and as for Dean? He had one pack of Twinkies left along with half a package of Funyuns. Not exactly balanced nutrition.  
  Dean thought back, turning to watch Sam as he slept, little whimpers leaving his brother. Sam needed something for that fever, and though the kids temperature was steady and not threatening, Dean knew that this was bad. Bad for Sam who hadn't even started first grade yet.  
  Dean didn't know how much longer he could keep pickpocketing the motel guests in the lobby without drawin' attention to the only ten year old on the property. Maybe he could get a five or a ten, pick up some of that cherry goop for Sam? Maybe.  
  
  The 'maybe' of it all made the ten year old's chest tighten, his eyes burn and the freckles that dotted his cheeks sting with a tight, panicked ache that he couldn't identify. Dean tried to breathe, tried to pick up the phone and dial Bobby but his hands wouldn't move. His body was taught and his nerves felt singed. He could tell by the blurr that those scalding tears created and welled in his eyes that his body was shaking, just by the way the tears fell to the kitchen counter as he leaned against it.  
  Dean sucked in a shuttered breath, one that was more of a choked sob, one that he knew he couldn't let escape again. One of the many choked breaths that kept coming.   
  
  Before Dean could even catch himself properly he was crying, bursting into tears and a hyperventilation that consumed the beating drums in his ears and the pounding of his head.  
  
  "Dean?" Sam's voice was faint.  
  
  "It's okay S-Sam," Dean turned away, wiping furiously at his eyes as he leaned his forehead against the cold countertop. "Just j-just go b-back to bed, o-okay?" Dean tried to swear, hearing the hiccup in his words and thickness in his voice.   
  
  "But-"  
  
  "Go back to b-b-bed-" Dean clenched his small fist and threw it against one of the wooden cabinets. "Go back to bed!" You could hear the pain and panic in the boys tone then, the way it seemed as if a hollow fear had reached into the length of his throat, claimed his vocals, and was tearing away at his voice.  
  
  Dean hadn't even heard the footsteps.  
    
  
  Sam wrapped his arms around his brothers waist and tugged on his brothers tee shirt, burying his soft curly waves into Dean's side.  
   
  "Don't yell at me." Sam whispered with a defiant shake of his head. "It makes my head hurt."  
    
  Dean bit back another panicked breath, thinking of how he had just made things worse.  
  
  "I-I'm sorry Sammy, j-just-"  
  
  "No." Sam turned wide green eyes and a pouted set of lips up to Dean. His cheeks were blushed red by heat of fever and his body was still warm to touch. "I won't."  
  
  "You have to r-rest-FUCK-" Dean cursed himself for hiccuping out another hitched breath. "Go back to-"  
  
  "Not if you don't come with me." Sam insisted, tugging on the hem of Dean's shirt like a three year old wanting his bed-time story, brow furrowed in determination.  
  
   Dean sniffled, ignoring him.  
  
  "I promise I won't wet the bed."  
  
  Dean tried to force a smile, finding only tears there. "Don't look at me, I-I'm fuckin'-"  
  
  "Shut up." Sam reached up with another shake of his head and pulled Dean's face down to his between hot palms and put on his best angry face on as he stared into his brother's eyes. "I don't care if yer' crying. People cry. I cry. It's okay."  
  
  "Yeah but-" Dean growled, irritated. His voice was still strained by his tears.  
  
  "I wanna' go to sleep." Sam shook Dean's face softly with a nod. "Now are you gonna' keep cryin' or are you gonna' come with me?"  
  
  Dean grit his teeth, wiping his eyes again and jerking his face out of Sam's hands.  
  
  Sam blinked, unmoving.  
  
  Dean glared for a moment, sniffling once more.  
  
  "Get into that bed and I swear to God if you tell Dad-"  
  
  Sam pulled on Dean's hand as he shuffledd back to the bed, pulling Dean down to face him as he let the cover sheet fall over them, resting his head in the crook of Dean's neck, forehead still wet with sweat and the little remaining tears that fell from Dean moments before.  
  
  Dean wrapped his arms gingerly around Sam as he scoot closer, breath still trying to normalize as he settled down. Each breath was still slightly hiccuped, but Sam didn't mind.  
  
  "Promise you won't tell D-Dad-" Dean grit his teeth as he held his breath for fear of another hitched word.  
  
  Sam let his little fingers curve around Dean's hand as it rested on him, fingers tenetively entwining themselves there as he tapped his thumb against Dean's in a soft beat.  
  
  "Only if you promise not to tell him I wet the bed."  
  
  Dean tried to laugh, body still shaking in soft as his nerves seemed to rewire a little normalcy back into his body.  
  
  "Deal."  
  
  Dean could feel Sam's little smile against his neck as he spoke.  
  Sam could feel the soft hum of Dean's breath, the echoing beat of his brothers heart, how it steadied and slowed.  
     
  "Night' Dean," Sam yawned against him.  
  
  Dean rested his chin on top of Sam's waves, sighing in soft. "Night Sammy."


End file.
